


The Golden Hour

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel Sidestories [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Come Swallowing, Father Figures, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Violence, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, POV Alternating, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2429921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As I made my way over to him, the song on the radio changed to that one about orchids in the moonlight, and I remember shaking my head at the syrupy lyrics. At that age, I hated anything sentimental, anything flowery. If you'd told me then that twenty years later I'd be humming that song with a wistful smile on my face, I would've told you to go and jump off the pier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ray

Eighteen-year-olds seem like barely more than children to me these days, but at the time I thought we had more brains than any of the old men we worked for. More brains, and more guts. That's the danger of working for the kind of incompetent small-fry operators you get in a little town. It makes you feel like you'll always be one step ahead; you become complacent, like the eighteen-year-old me, or reckless, like the eighteen-year-old Vic. Either way, it's the sort of start in life that locks you into an unhappy ending. One that nothing short of a miracle could rescue you from.

Going from a little town to a big city did nothing to dampen our spirits. I was as complacent doing the collections for a big-shot as I had been playing lookout for a gang of nobodies, and the only difference was that now I had the lights to stare at lazily as I meandered around, the amusements to be distracted by, and the pier to be drawn in by and almost made late by every night. For me it, it was just a change of backdrop. The city changed Vic much more. While I maintained my course, sailing along on a steady downhill trajectory, he began to pick up speed. The small-town delinquent blossomed into a big-city hoodlum, and his recklessness became almost a death-wish. I have absolutely no doubt where my brother would have ended up, and how quickly he would have made his entrance there, if luck hadn't been on our side. We got our miracle, but we had to skirt the edge of the abyss to find it.

Now, these days I'm well aware that there are essentially two kinds of hit. One is performed carefully and precisely by an experienced professional who has either a great deal of money or a great deal of personal satisfaction as his reward. The other is a crude hack job done by whichever disposable, desperate, gullible hoodlum is nearest when the need arises. There might be the promise of money or a promotion, but the hoodlum isn't around long enough afterwards to enjoy the fruits of his labour. He is safely tucked away in prison, or at the bottom of a river, long before the cheque bounces. I know that now, but at the time it seemed like just another unpleasant job. At the time, deep down, I even thought we were professionals.

We'd been working for Bennett for months, fetching and carrying, doing whatever he deemed to too dirty or too trivial for his older lackeys to bother with. When he told Vic to put one of his competitors out of action, it didn't even strike me as dangerous. Of course, I thought, Vic would have the upper hand physically. The guy Bennett wanted out of the way could barely afford any security, and he certainly wasn't tough enough to put up much of a fight himself. It'd be easy. Dirty, stomach-turning work, but not a challenge. If Vic had asked me what I thought, I would have told him to go for it. After all, I would have said, if you take a guy down for him, that's got to earn you some respect from the boss and his cronies, hasn't it? But Vic didn't need any encouragement. He agreed straight away, with no hesitation at all. I suppose that made it as much his fault as mine, but that's not the way it felt. When the police came for him afterwards, I felt as if I'd done the stabbing myself, and it was Vic who had to pay for my stupidity.

They took him in the middle of the night, dragged him out of bed and away before I'd even really woken up. I threw myself at them, trying to pull him back, or to at least get between him and them, but it was futile. They threw me against the wall and kicked me until I stopped fighting, and then they were gone. I could hear Vic kicking and flailing as they dragged him down the stairs, hitting the bannisters and the walls on his way down, shouting at them, insisting over and over that he hadn't done anything. I heard the cars drive away, and then there was nothing except the sound of my wheezing and the darkness of the empty room.

 

* * *

 

"There's no work for you tonight," the guy on the door said, pushing me away with a palm in the chest. "Go home."

"I'm not here for work, I need to see Mr Bennett."

"He's busy."

"Please!" I said, grabbing onto his lapels. "I've got to see him, it's urgent."

He looked at me, and behind his eyes I thought I could see the cogs turning, working their way line by line through the calculation. Eventually the machine spat out an answer that favoured me, and this time he shoved me away with a gentler hand. "Wait here, I'll go and ask."

I assumed the calculation involved weighing up how likely I was to have anything Bennett might want, if I were to offer a trade. Knowing older men the way I did, I assumed the doorman's look was an appraisal. Was I handsome enough? Young enough? Desperate enough? Would his boss enjoy me, at least enough to be worth the effort of saving Vic? My arrogance answered those questions without hesitation—yes, certainly, I was worth it—and I followed that assumption down the line to its logical conclusion, so that when the doorman came back and told me to follow him, I was steeling myself to play the sacrificial lamb. I followed him down the hall and into the dusty backroom, thinking _Is this where I'll have to do it?_ I looked at Bennett's cronies, with their faded suits and their sneering faces, thinking _Will he make me do it in front of them?_ By the time I came to stand in front of him, I was horrified, and I must have looked it.

"What's the matter with you?" he said, casually. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Mr Bennett," I began, with my voice already shaking. "You've got to help Vic, he's been arrested, he'll—" It spilled out of me in a clumsy, halting rush. "With what he's done, he'll be lucky if he doesn't hang. Please, you've got to get him out!"

"Get him out?" he chuckled. "Why would I want to get him out?"

"What?"

At this, he laughed so loud it turned my stomach. "You know, I thought your brother was the stupid one, but I guess he got your share of the brains after all. At least _he's_ probably worked out by now that he was set up."

I felt as if I were going mad. I thought of Vic sitting in that cell, knowing that at best he was going away for good, knowing that he might get worse than life, knowing that it wasn't even the police who really turned the key on him, that it was one of our own who did it. I could feel his outrage as keenly as if I were sitting there holding his hand, and it welled up in my throat and out of my lips before I could catch it. "But _why_? Why would you do that to him?"

Bennett shrugged. "Why not?"

"We worked hard for you! We were _loyal_ to you!" I jabbed my finger toward him, and even that small movement was enough of a cue to get his guards up on their feet. They held onto my arms, pulling me back, and I strained against them as I listened to his laughter.

"Who cares how loyal a couple of mongrels like you are?" he said, grinning, as he watched me struggle. "You're worthless, the pair of you. You're nothing at all. You ought to be grateful I even hired you in the first place." He glanced up at the guards, and nodded. "Get him out of here, I'm sick of looking at that pathetic face."

I was limp as they threw me out onto the pavement. I staggered and fell, and stayed on my knees as I heard them lock the door behind me. I stayed there for a long time, for what felt like hours. At some point I must have gotten to my feet, and somehow I must have found my way back to the bedsit, but I don't remember it. The next thing I remember is lying face-down on the bed, crying like I hadn't cried since I was a little boy. My ribs ached, and my face was burning, and the blanket underneath my cheek was damp and cold. I pushed myself up, and kept my lips pressed tight against the sob that was trying to break out. Then I sat cross-legged for a long time, with my arms wrapped around my chest, thinking hard. I thought about breaking into Bennett's house and killing him in his sleep. I thought about sneaking a knife into his club, and attacking him in front of his friends, so they could all see him suffer and beg. I thought about setting him up, so that he ended up in the same place as Vic. I must have thought of a dozen schemes I didn't have the means to pull off, and I was still thinking when the telephone rang.

"Yeah?" I answered it in a hard, guarded voice. I thought it might have been one of Bennett's men, ringing up to gloat.

"Ray," the only voice I ever wanted to hear again said, breathlessly, "Ray, I'm out, you've got to come and meet me."

"You've broken out?"

"No, don't be stupid," Vic said, with a rough laugh. "They've _let_ me out. Come and meet me."

"Alright," I said, not wanting to ask how or why, in case it broke the spell. "Where?"


	2. Vic

Where we grew up, there was nothing. It was the kind of nothing that could suck you in and keep you there til you croaked, if you let it. I don't remember exactly why we moved, but a few weeks after we left home it suddenly hit me what a close shave we'd had. If we'd stayed a few more months, I reckoned, we would have been stuck there forever. So maybe I jumped headfirst into the big city lifestyle when I should have taken it nice and easy. I couldn't slow down. I wanted to _feel_ this place, I wanted the taste and the smell of it to fill my head and wipe out every last memory of what we'd done before. And I was a stupid enough kid not to realise I was still drinking the same drink, only mixed a bit stronger.

When you do drudge work, you end up answering to chumps. That's the same wherever you are. We took orders from idiots at home, and when we moved, we just traded up for idiots in better suits. That's what I put it down to. Idiocy. The reason Bennett set us up, it wasn't that he hated our guts. Not particularly. He was just stupid, and short-sighted, the same way any of them are. He saw a target, picked up the nearest tool, and lobbed the one toward the other without a second thought. That's what gets all of them, in the end. They don't think these things through.

Bennett didn't even bother asking if I'd done it before. I'd knifed a few guys, he knew that much, but he should have checked. Spilling blood to put the frighteners on someone, that's one thing, but finishing them off's another kettle of fish entirely. It's hard work, and I didn't have the first clue what I was doing. I felt like I was hacking away for hours, listening to the noises, trying not to look at his face. Then afterwards, I kept getting the feeling that something big should have happened, that I'd crossed a line and it meant something should have changed inside me. I walked out of that alley expecting to feel something, but the funny thing was, the only feelings I had were the ones you'd get after any old job. I was tired, and annoyed, and hungry, and I wished I was at home with Ray. Nothing like you're supposed to feel, and that all on its own had me worried. I tried to hide it when I got back to the bedsit—I tried to pretend I was shaken up by what I'd done—but Ray didn't buy that act for a minute.

"What's wrong?" he said, as soon as he saw my face.

"What d'you think?" I slammed the door behind me. "You know where I've been."

"Yeah, but it's not that."

I went across to the sink, and started to wash my hands.

"Did something else happen?"

"No."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

I turned around, and he looked so shaken up himself that I couldn't keep on holding it in. I can do a lot of things, but I can't hurt Ray. Not then, and not now. I spilled the whole thing to him, what I was worrying about, what I thought it meant, and at the end of it all he just laughed that big warm laugh.

"Vic," he said, shaking his head, "if you can do a job like that and come out without a scratch, I'd say that's a talent. Now why don't you shut up and let me get some sleep? You know we've got to be up early tomorrow."


	3. Ray

The café he'd picked was a dingy little one a few streets away from the station. The windows were steamed up, and a wall of humid, greasy air hit my face as soon as I opened the door. Between the hiss of the fryer and the sound of the radio playing in the corner, I could hardly hear myself think, but I couldn't blame Vic for choosing somewhere noisy and bright. Not after what he'd been through. He was sitting with his back to the wall, facing the entrance, and as soon as I walked through the door I could see the smile on his face. He looked so happy you'd have thought that grimy café was his dream come true. A middle-aged man was sitting next to him, sideways on, so that I got a good look at his profile before either of them noticed me. Gleaming brown hair, grey at the temples, side-parted, with a loose wave in it. Light skin, slightly plump, clean-shaven, wrinkled around the eyes and the mouth. Grey suit, white shirt, maroon and silver paisley tie, a matching handkerchief, and jewelled cuff-links. I remember thinking _Who does this guy think he is, coming around here dressed like that?_ I thought he must be mad, or stupid. It didn't occur to me that he had no reason to be afraid.

"Ray, over here," Vic called out, waving me over. He was still wearing the shirt and trousers he'd been sleeping in when the police came, but as tired and bruised and crumpled as he was, his eyes and voice were full of life. As I made my way over to him, the song on the radio changed to that one about orchids in the moonlight, and I remember shaking my head at the syrupy lyrics. At that age, I hated anything sentimental, anything flowery. If you'd told me then that twenty years later I'd be humming that song with a wistful smile on my face, I would've told you to go and jump off the pier.

"Who's this?" I knew I sounded possessive, but at that moment I wanted to play guard-dog. I wanted to bark at anyone who even looked Vic's way.

"I'm Ambrose Middleton," the middle-aged guy said, holding his hand out. I didn't shake it. I recognised the name—one of Bennett's rivals, an out-of-towner like us, only rich and getting richer by the day—and I assumed he was just another gang boss scouting for gullible punks to use and throw away. The thought made me rigid with anger and fear.

"Sit down, Ray. This is the guy that got me out." Vic's smile spread out into a grin.

"Is it?" I leaned forward on my elbows, staring right at the old guy. He was forty-two at the time, I know now. Back then, in my eyes he was simply _old_ , in the way that anyone who had the good fortune to make it out of their twenties was. "And how d'you manage that?"

"The police are as underpaid here as anywhere else." Mr Middleton smiled slightly, but I could see a glimmer of disgust in his eyes. "Money is the simplest solution to this kind of problem."

_And why exactly did you do it?_ I wanted to ask, but even then I had enough sense not to be downright rude to him. Instead I took hold of Vic's elbow and tried to pull him up to his feet. "We need to talk," I said to him, with a quick, cold glance at Mr Middleton. "Alone."

"As it happens, I was just about to excuse myself for a moment." Mr Middleton got to his feet, and gave us both a broad smile. "I need to make a telephone call. I won't be long, boys."

He went outside, across the road to the phonebox in front of the chemist's, and as soon as the café door was shut behind him, I turned on Vic as if it all this were his fault. "What's going on?" I demanded, shaking him by the arm. "You tell me what the hell's going on, Vic, and you tell me right now."

"Damned if I know." Vic shrugged. "The warden let me out, and when I got to the front desk, there he was, shaking hands and saying goodbye to one of the bigwigs. _Come along, Victor,_ he says, _you're a free man!_ I'm not going to argue with that, am I?"

"Look, I'll tell you what's going on," I said, tightening my grip. "He's trying to buy you. Trying to buy _us_. You know how these old guys get when they lay eyes on a pair of twins."

"So what if he is?" Vic put his hand on my wrist, and pulled his arm gently out of my grip. "Even if he's just looking for a bit of fun, he got me out of that place, Ray. He got me out when I thought I'd never see daylight again. I'd say he bought himself a lifetime pass."

"Yeah, well, that pass doesn't include me. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful to him, I'd be grateful to anyone who got you out, but that's as far as it goes, alright?"

"Alright," Vic said, with a little smile. I found out later that he wasn't even faintly convinced by my speech, but at the time I thought I'd put on a flawless show. In my mind, we all had our roles, into which we fitted perfectly: Vic was the naïve, exploitable dependent; I was the cynical yet unfailingly correct caretaker; Mr Middleton was the opportunistic deceiver, against whom my wariness was our only defence. All teenagers are arrogant, self-deluding hypocrites, but in that respect, I really was a prodigy.


	4. Vic

The whole time I was in that cell, I was thinking about Ray. Wondering what he was doing. Trying to figure out what I was going to say to him, if they ever let me see him again. Mapping out what his life would be like without me around. He'd do alright, I thought. He'd be cut up at first, but if he could push through it and put all this in the past, he'd be okay on his own. He'd always been the sensible one, and once he'd calmed down about losing me, I reckoned he'd just go right on being sensible. He might even have a better shot at a good life, without me in tow. But now and then a little voice in my head would start up telling me how unfair all this was, how I didn't deserve to be there, how it should be Bennett stuck in a cell waiting for the hammer to fall. I'd listen for a bit, getting angrier and angrier, pacing the cell, until eventually I'd snap and kick the bed or punch the wall. Then that voice would quieten down again, and I'd sit back down, and go back to thinking about Ray. The idea of him was the only thing that stopped me going right off the rails.

When they came to tell me I could go, I was in one of the quiet phases, just sitting on the bed with my head in my hands. It took me a minute to figure out what the warden was telling me, but as soon as it clicked I was on my feet and following him out into the front of the station like the place was on fire. I had no idea what was going on, but it didn't matter. I didn't want to stop and think until I was outside. I would've gone with anyone, anyone at all.

"Your guardian angel's over there," the warden said, nodding towards the front desk. "I don't know what he wants with you, but you'd better go and say thank-you to him, lad. He's just saved your bacon."

I can tell you what Mr Middleton looked like, on that first day. I can tell you about his hair (glossy and brown), his suit (expensive and grey), his face (fair, lined, and handsome in a soft kind of way), but none of that tells you what really matters. What matters is that when I saw him, when he looked at me and said "Well, then, let's get you out of here, shall we?" it felt like the sun spilling out over the rooftops and onto my face. And make no mistake about it, everything Ray was going to warn me against later that night, I wanted it all there and then, every bit of it. I wanted it the minute I laid eyes on Mr Middleton. The stupid thing was, I thought there was no way in the world he'd ever want _me_.

Maybe if we'd met somewhere else, I would have tried my luck with Mr Middleton straight away, but by the time he'd introduced himself and taken me out of the station, I was starting to think about the difference between me and him, and it felt like there was a big heavy door slamming shut in front of me. And I don't mean just the age-gap, mind you. By the time I was eighteen I'd been with maybe a dozen guys who were old enough to be my dad, and I had a taste for it even then, but the difference was that they'd all been cut from the same cloth as me and Ray. They'd worked the same jobs as we did, when they were younger, they'd gone to the same schools, they'd grown up on the same streets. They talked the same language as us. But Mr Middleton—to me, back then, he might as well have been from another planet. I thought he'd been born rich and comfortable, and the more I thought about it, the more sure I was that to a man like him, me and Ray wouldn't even register as real people, let alone boys worth pursuing.

"You must be absolutely famished, Victor," he said, putting his palm on my back. "I imagine institutional meals are no more appetising now than they were in my day."

"I've had worse," I said, trying not to think about how that hand was setting my blood on fire, "but if you want to buy me some real food, I'm not complaining."

"Splendid," he chuckled. "There are some lively little cafes around here, aren't there? Why don't we go to the Four Seasons?"

"Alright," I grinned at Mr Middleton, and when he smiled back at me, I felt like my heart was trying to batter its way out of my chest. "But I've got to ring Ray first and let him know where we are. He's going to want to meet the guy who got me off scot free, isn't he?"

 

* * *

 

"How much d'you reckon all this cost?" I said, sprawling out on the bed, stretching my arms and legs out as far as they could go.

"I don't want to think about it." Ray was standing in the inner doorway that connected our rooms, with his arms folded, frowning. "We haven't done a single job for him yet, and he's willing to shell out for hotel rooms like this? And this is just a stop-gap, while he sorts out something _a little less grimly spartan_?" The way Ray mimicked Mr Middleton's tone was spot on, but it didn't sound mocking. It sounded green with envy. "He's putting on a big show to impress us, and that's fair enough, but what I want to know is, exactly what's he expecting in return?"

"Well, he's already told us that, hasn't he?"

"You buy all that stuff about just wanting a couple of apprentices?"

"Sure, it makes sense to me," I said, shrugging. "He wants people who do things his way, so he's after guys he can train up from scratch."

"Like a pair of pet dogs, you mean." Ray walked off into his room, but he left the connecting door open, and I could see him standing in front of the window, looking out towards the promenade. He'd chosen the room with the sea view after what felt like an hour of to-ing and fro-ing about who should take which one, but the way he frowned as he looked out of the window, you'd think it was a punishment.

"Listen, Ray," I said, watching him glower, "just treat this like any other job. Take the money and do what he says, and if you get sick of it, just say the word and we're out of here. We'll go wherever you like. Anywhere you want, you name it. But for the time being, just try to hang on and collect as many of these paypackets as we can, alright?"

"Alright." He turned around, and I could see the beginnings of a smile on his face. Then he came over to the door and swung it shut, and from behind it I could hear him mutter "At least Mr Middleton's bought me a few nights of not having to listen to your snoring, anyway."


	5. Ray

When I think about the thing that really began to win me over, it seems absurd. It wasn't the apartment, which was dazzling and gorgeous, and which made those rooms at the Imperial look like a draughty corner at the YMCA. It wasn't the expensive suits, which fitted us beautifully and somehow felt more comfortable than any clothes I'd ever worn. It wasn't even the borrowed pride that came from following Mr Middleton around, being enveloped in the halo of absolute control that seemed to surround him. It was the fact that he saw we had talents— _different_ talents. It was the honest intention to mentor us, the idea I'd sneered at when I was alone with Vic, the proposal I'd written off as a transparent ploy. What strikes me as absurd now, and what struck Mr Middleton as a terrible shame back then, was that he was the first man to ever see us as individuals with our own aptitudes. To everyone who came before, Vic and I were identical, interchangeable dogsbodies. To Mr Middleton, we were saplings of quite different varieties, each needing a particular type of tending, each with its own vulnerabilities. He was the first man to ever look at us and realise there was something there worth cultivating.

"Here you are, Raymond," he said, passing me a stack of books. "These should keep you busy for a few weeks, I think."

"You want me to read these?" I looked at the book on the top of the pile. The title was French, I could recognise that much, but I didn't know what it meant. I panicked briefly, wondering if the whole book would be written in French, but when I flicked through the first few pages I saw with relief that it wasn't.

"Yes, and tell me what you think."

"This is going to help me and Vic do our jobs, is it?" I looked up at him, confused and frowning, and then suddenly I realised how insolent my question had been. "I don't get it, sir," I added, sheepishly.

"These books, and books in general, won't give you any practical advice on how to do your job," he said, sitting back down in his armchair. "The question they'll help you answer isn't how to work, Raymond, it's how to _live_."

"Oh." I nodded, but I didn't understand. What he meant wouldn't really make sense to me until months later, but I did at least understand that he was trying to help me, and that, most importantly, he didn't think the pile of thick, old novels I had in my hands was beyond me. I smiled at him, and nodded again. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

For weeks afterwards, I spent a few hours each day reading the books he'd given me. Vic and I would go out on a job in the morning, and then I'd go straight back to the apartment afterward, as keenly as if I had a pretty boy waiting for me, so that I could read a few more chapters before we went to Mr Middleton's house in the evening. He didn't interrogate me about what I read, or even prompt me to talk; he waited for me to offer my opinion, and when I did, he listened. He _really_ listened, and whatever I'd said would become the root of an hour's conversation, roaming and branching in so many different directions that by the time he sent us home for the night, I could hardly remember where we'd begun. I devoured the first stack of books Mr Middleton gave me in a fortnight, and when I asked for more, he took me up into his library and told me to take whatever interested me.

"And of course," he said, "if there's a book you want that isn't here, do tell me—whatever we don't have to hand, we'll send away for."

"Thank you, sir." I looked at him, standing there in front of a wall filled from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. The spines of the books made of backdrop of dark reds and greens and blues, and they reminded me of the deep, vivid colours you see in medieval paintings. I'd been in a museum once when I was younger, to take shelter from the rain, and I'd been fascinated by the portraits of old, wealthy men in gleaming velvet clothes. That's what power was, I thought. The vibrant colours, the rich textures you could almost feel as your eyes moved over the paintings, the smiles on the faces of those old men, calm and warm and completely at ease. When I looked at Mr Middleton, standing in his library, offering me anything I wanted, anything I could imagine, I felt as if one of those portraits had come to life and held out its hand to me.

"Thank you very much, sir," I said again, looking away to hide my embarrassment, pretending to study the books on the shelf beside me.

"Not at all, Raymond," he said, putting his hand lightly on my shoulder. "Take as long as you like to browse. I'll be downstairs in the lounge if you need me."

Mr Middleton was wrong in what he said to me that day. Those books _were_ useful in teaching me how to work, because they gave me a palette of options to choose from. In them, I found examples of what a young man could be, how he could behave and speak, and what the effects of all that might be. Every book or play or piece of music Mr Middleton introduced us to became a part of my palette, and as much as he drew me out, he gave me the tools I needed to draw _myself_ out.


	6. Vic

The first time I ever saw the other side of Mr Middleton, it was a bolt from the blue. He'd been taking us out on jobs for about a month by that point, mostly just to watch his hired hands shake people down, with the odd bit of heavy lifting delegated to me and Ray. This time, it was just the three of us. Well, four, if you include the poor chump he'd decided would make a good punchbag for us to practice on.

"I've been with Mr Chambers for years now," the shopkeeper said, frowning at us like he'd caught us trying to fill our pockets. "This is his turf, and I'm not switching sides just because you've decided you want a bigger slice."

"Don't be unreasonable," Ray said, picking up one of the jars from the counter. "You've been with Chambers for years because it made sense to be. Now it makes sense to come on-board with Mr Middleton." He tossed the jar from one hand to the other and back again. "You're a smart guy. Why wouldn't you make the smart choice?"

"Why? I'll tell you why," the shopkeeper sneered, looking right at Mr Middleton. "I've been paying dues to Mr Chambers for years, and he's always looked after me. You've been here three months and you think you're going to take over, do you? You think a preening southern poseur like you can just swan into town and take the top spot, do you? Why don't you go back where you came from? Go on, and take your poodles with you!"

"You shut that mouth," I hissed, and before I knew it I had the guy's throat in my hands. I was only supposed to be putting the frighteners on him, but I wasn't thinking straight. I wasn't thinking at all. I wanted to snap his neck.

"Victor."

I let go, and the shopkeeper staggered backwards a couple of steps. He was looking at me, wild-eyed, rubbing his neck with one hand.

"You must keep yourself under control, Victor," Mr Middleton said, putting a hand on my shoulder. I caught the smell of something rich and dark, and when I looked at him, I saw he'd put on the pair of leather gloves that he usually saved for cold days. I knew what that meant, and I was as surprised as the shopkeeper. Neither of us expected a man like Mr Middleton to take things into his own hands, but our reactions couldn't have been more different. I was watching, waiting eagerly, with my eyes stuck on the gleam of that leather. The shopkeeper was rolling his eyes and smirking.

"Oh, you're going to give me a pasting yourself, are you?" he spat. "Mind you don't crease that nice suit, eh?"

Mr Middleton smiled. "You're going to shut up shop for a while, Mr Whitechurch, but how long you're closed for is entirely up to you."

The shopkeeper didn't reply. He just kept smirking at Mr Middleton, and I kept my fists clenched tight. _I must keep myself under control_ , I thought to myself, and I repeated the instruction in my head a few times for good measure.

"Lock the door, Raymond, then close the blinds, and put the sign up. Victor, bring Mr Whitechurch through into the backroom."

I grabbed hold of the shopkeeper and shoved him through the doorway. He didn't even try to throw me off. He just looked back at me and laughed.

"Take a seat," Mr Middleton said, pointing one of those leather-gloved fingers at the rickety chair by the desk. Whitechurch probably did his books there, and I smiled at the thought of him remembering this beating every time he sat down at that desk. I pushed him into the chair, and when he looked up at me, for the first time I could see a crack in his confidence. I glanced at Mr Middleton, but his face was the same picture of calm, still contentedness.

"Now, hold our friend still, Victor," he said, "and if you could supply some lighting, Raymond, that would be marvellous."

It was the kind of scene I'd helped with a dozen times before: take one stubborn guy who needs convincing, add one lackey to hold him down and another to shine a light in his eyes so he can't even brace himself when he sees the blows coming, then season to taste with a good hard beating. I'd been the one doing the holding-down and the one shining the light, and when Bennett was short-staffed I'd even done the beatings myself. But it was never like this. The backroom seemed darker, so dark that without that lamp on it would have been the pitch-dark room you had nightmares about as a kid. The light of the lamp seemed harsher, hotter, drier, as if it would burn your eyeballs right out if you got too close. And Mr Middleton, with shadows sharpening the lines of his face and deepening the darkness under his eyes, with lamplight gleaming on the grey in his hair and the taut black leather of his gloves, standing over Whitechurch with as grave a look on his face as if he meant to kill the guy outright—Mr Middleton looked like nothing I'd ever seen before.

"Do your worst," the shopkeeper said, in the way they always do, before they really know what they're asking for. Mr Middleton hit him, once, with the back of his hand. I felt Whitechurch jerk in my arms as he flinched, and I knew the slap must have been a heavy one, but the shopkeeper kept up a good show of not caring.

"Is that it?" he said, tipping his head back a bit. Mr Middleton didn't reply. That black leather fist came down again, harder this time, and the shopkeeper's head swung to the side like a swaying punchbag. He grunted quietly, like he was trying to bury it in the back of his throat, but I could hear everything. I felt like I could hear the train of thought in his head. He'd be surprised that someone like Mr Middleton could hit that hard. He'd be angry that we were pushing him around so easily. But more than anything he'd be scared, afraid of what Mr Middleton would do to him, afraid of what we'd do to his shop, afraid of what Chambers would do if he gave in and switched sides. It'd feel like an impossible situation, I thought.

"Wait," the shopkeeper said, but Mr Middleton didn't wait. His fist came down again, and again, over and over, knocking Whitechurch's head from side to side like an uneven pendulum. Mr Middleton told me later that he kept up the beating to make a point, but at the time I thought he was genuinely angry. That frightened me, but not half as much as it frightened Whitechurch.

"No," he said, trying to put his hands up. I pushed his arms back down, but he kept fighting me, trying to wriggle out of my grip. "No," he said again, "no, wait, you can't—"

Mr Middleton cut him off, and this time he kept on hitting the shopkeeper until there were no words coming out of him at all. There was nothing but slurred groans and choked gasps, by the time Mr Middleton had finished. Whitechurch hadn't been a looker to start off with, but now he looked like an accident at the factory. Now he'd have a nice crooked memento of this beating every time he looked at his face in the mirror.

"I'll do it," he said, once Mr Middleton finally stopped. "I'll come on-board, so just—" He cut himself off with a burst of coughing.

"Splendid." Mr Middleton smiled, and started to peel off his gloves. "There's a lesson here for you, Mr Whitechurch. Loyalty is all well and good, but times are changing. You must learn to change with them." He dropped the bloodied gloves to the floor at Whitechurch's feet, and turned on his heel. "Come along, boys. We shan't keep our friend any longer."

We followed Mr Middleton out onto the street, and I held the car door for him while Ray got into the driver's seat. As we pulled away, I couldn't resist asking the question that had been on my mind since I watched him put on those leather gloves.

"Do you do that sort of thing a lot, sir?" I said, trying not to sound too shocked.

"Not often, no." He paused, and chuckled. "Only when the situation requires it."

"I didn't think you'd ever bother getting your hands dirty," I carried on, buoyed along by his laughter. "If you don't mind me saying, sir."

"Well, that's exactly the point, Victor." He looked at me, smiling, as if he could read every thought in my head. "If I take extreme measures occasionally, but not always, then I acquire the reputation of a man whose actions can't quite be predicted. I reap all the rewards of a strenuously violent character, with only the bare minimum of exertion."

"Yeah," I said, nodding. "Yeah, I get it." I glanced over at Ray, but his eyes were fixed on the road, and he looked like he was a million miles away.

"I hope you do," Mr Middleton said, with a hard edge under the lightness of his voice. "There was a lesson for the pair of you in today's performance, too."


	7. Ray

It took Vic's feelings a couple of months to reach boiling point, and to be quite honest, I was surprised to see him hold out that long. He's always been so blunt, so straightforward, always the one to walk right up to whoever he liked the look of and tell them in no uncertain terms exactly what he wanted. Watching Vic mooning impotently over Mr Middleton was such an odd experience that at times I thought he might be ill. Perhaps he'd come down with something, I thought, some kind of sickness that had made him hesitant and nervous in the way a cold makes you snappish or a fever makes you pliant. I had no idea that he was simply afraid of rejection.

"Ray," he said suddenly one afternoon, as we sat listening to the radio, "how do I get Mr Middleton to notice me?"

I thought about all the times I'd seen Mr Middleton's eyes drifting down across Vic's body. I thought about the little touches he gave both of us—a pat on the shoulder here, a stroke on the arm there, a hand in the small of the back, steering us gently along—and the warmth in his voice when he said Vic's name. I thought about all those little hints you would have had to be blind to have missed, and I couldn't suppress a laugh.

"He's already noticed you, you big fool."

Vic thought for a moment, and then scowled at me. "Don't kid around with this, I'm serious."

"I'm not kidding. You've seen the way he looks at you, haven't you?"

"He doesn't look at me like that," he said, and then there was another pause, this one with a little smile at the end of it. "Does he?"

"He's probably just waiting for you to give him the green light, Vic. You know how he is about etiquette."

"D'you think so?" he said, but I could see in his eyes he wasn't listening any more. He was deciding exactly how it would all happen, exactly what he would say, and how Mr Middleton would react, and how he would respond to that reaction, and so on and so forth, with the kind of absorbed smile on his face that I never get tired of seeing.

After that, Vic didn't waste a moment. He took the very next opportunity that arose. It was a week later, and I'd been out all evening on a solo job, supervising the delivery of some goods Mr Middleton was sending down to a neighbouring territory. I knew as soon as I came into the apartment that Vic had been up to something, but out of habit I assumed that he'd just managed to pick up a particularly beautiful boy. I said hello to him and hung my jacket up, but I didn't ask him what had happened. We played this game sometimes, when Vic wanted to brag about something but didn't want to announce it without being prompted. He'd follow me around, smiling significantly at me, and I'd make casual small-talk with him, studiously avoiding anything that could be construed as curiosity. We could easily keep this up for hours, but somehow that day I had no willpower at all. After five minutes of Vic standing in the doorway, grinning at me while I changed clothes, I finally snapped and said "Alright, spill it, who'd you pick up this time?"

"I didn't pick anyone up," he said, almost coyly. "I made a move on Mr Middleton."

I turned around, holding the fresh shirt I'd chosen in front of me like a modesty screen. I'd been expecting a mildly titillating conversation about some pretty young thing he'd met at a bar, but now my mind was full of the image of Mr Middleton and all the things I imagined he'd want to do to Vic—and by extension, to me. "Well, go on," I said, in a rushed, half-whispered voice, like a gossiping schoolboy. "What happened?"

"Not half as much as I wanted," he laughed. "You should see the state of my knees, though."

"He went for it?" I suppose deep down I'd wondered whether Mr Middleton's idea of propriety would exclude getting involved with his protégés.

"Course he did." Vic smiled a charmingly self-satisfied smile, as if he'd never doubted his own appeal.

"Well, that's…" I said, but I didn't know how to finish the sentence. What _was_ it? Not surprising, obviously. Not upsetting, either, despite all the time I'd spent warning Vic this would happen. The nearest I could come to describing it was that I felt out of place, somehow. I felt as if Vic had won a race or gotten a promotion. I was lagging behind, and even if I wasn't altogether redundant, I was at the very least a disappointment.


	8. Vic

There was only a week between the night I decided I was going to try my luck with Mr Middleton and the day I actually got to do it, but that week felt like a year. All I wanted was a couple of minutes alone with him, so I didn't have to risk being knocked back in front of an audience, but for a whole week it seemed like every time we could've had a private conversation, some lackey would pop up needing Mr Middleton's yay or nay for something, or even worse, Ray would be there. I couldn't tell Ray to push off, and something stopped me just asking Mr Middleton outright for a quiet word somewhere. It seemed, I don't know, too formal. Too planned. I needed it to seem natural and spur-of-the-moment, when I made my move. So I waited, and waited, and waited for the perfect moment to happen all on its own. And that's the trouble with waiting for something to happen naturally, isn't it? It's like waiting for a double six. You could be there a long time.

When I finally got my chance, it was last thing on a Thursday afternoon. I'd been helping load the lorries all day, which meant I was dead on my feet and covered in sweat and grime, but I didn't give a damn. The warehouse was empty. Ray had already left, tagging along with one of the drivers so he could watch how the handover was done. The rest of the warehouse boys had scarpered the minute Mr Middleton said we were finished for the day. There was just me, him, and a big empty space of silence all around us.

"Well then," Mr Middleton said, fishing the keys out of his pocket. "I imagine you'll want to head straight home, after all that hard work."

"No, sir," I said, staying where I was. I could feel a trickle of sweat snaking down across my forehead, and I wiped it off with the back of my hand. "I'd rather stay with you."

"Would you?" he said, with a kind of laughter in his eyes. Not nasty, not mocking, just amused and happy. "Shall we go back to the house, then?"

I shook my head. "To be honest, sir, I don't want to wait that long."

Mr Middleton laughed softly. "Don't you, indeed?"

"No, sir." I braced myself, and held his gaze. "So you can have me right here and now, if you want to."

There was a moment where neither of us said anything, and I couldn't read the look in his eyes. The warehouse felt even hotter, sweltering now, and bone-dry as if there was no air in the place at all. I knew for certain that he was going to say no. I knew he was going to tell me in that kind, gentle way of his that he was flattered, of course, but that it was impossible. I'd heard that speech plenty of times from younger guys who dressed and talked like Mr Middleton, so I reckoned he'd use the same words as them to give me the brush off. I was bracing myself for a cold shoulder dressed up in a fur coat.

But instead he held the keys out, and said "Go and lock the doors." That hard edge was back in his voice, the one that meant he meant business. The one that still does. The one that makes my skin hot even now.

I locked up quickly, and when I came back to him, Mr Middleton was looking at me with a kind of openness in his eyes that I'd never seen before. It was as if all this time I'd been warming myself by a crack in the oven door, and now the thing had swung open all the way. Now I was getting the full blast of it. What I could feel now made all the warmth of the last few weeks seem like a match-flame in comparison. He reached out to touch my cheek, as if he was going to wipe a smudge of dirt off it, but instead he just stroked his fingertips down from my cheekbone to my jaw, then down along the side of my throat, down over my collarbone, and across to my shoulder. His hand was firmer there, squeezing the muscle and bone of it, and all of a sudden the cloth of my shirt felt like a suit of armour between us. I had to get rid of it. I started tugging my shirttails out of my trousers, without asking for permission, and Mr Middleton just smiled and stepped back a bit, as if he was trying to find the spot with exactly the best view.

Sometimes, with older guys, when we get down to it I start feeling as if I'm watching both sides of it from outside. I'm watching them, but at the same time I'm watching myself, looking at my own face and my own body as if I'm seeing it all through their eyes. It's never like that with boys. With them, I'm like a camera that's got no-one behind the viewfinder. I watch them, and I'm completely absorbed in it, to the point that I feel like there's no _me_ there doing the watching. But with older guys, I can feel myself behind the viewfinder, I'm as aware of myself as I am of the other guy, and my focus keeps swinging around and around like a blurry montage. As Mr Middleton watched me taking that shirt off, I was half-watching myself, looking at my dusty grey work trousers and my bare, oil-smudged chest. I could see both of us as clearly as if I was a peeping tom at the window.

When he reached out again and ran his hand down along my chest and side, I could feel the warmth of his skin against mine, the firmness of his touch, the softness of his palm, and at the same time I could feel what it must be like for him. The smoothness of my chest, the hardness of its muscle, the ridges of my ribs. He'd like the feeling of strength about me, I reckoned, but at the same time he'd enjoy the softness of youth that you get even in the toughest young bruiser. I liked the way his hand looked against me. The shine on his nails. The fine silvery hair under his cuff. The candlewax-coloured skin with lines around the knuckles, like knots in tree bark. I watched his hand for a long time, and when he brought both of them up to my shoulders and gave me a little push down, I sank to my knees like I was under a spell.

He didn't talk, like I was expecting him to. A lot of them do, and of all people you'd think Mr Middleton would be the talkative type, but that first time he didn't say a word. It was all in his eyes, and the way he stood, and the way his breaths came a bit shallower, and bit faster. I watched his face while I unbuttoned his fly, keeping track of the smile on his lips, and when I wrapped my hand around his cock for the first time, you could just see a little spark of pleasure in his eyes. I'd seen that spark sometimes when I was watching him listen to music, and the idea that he got the same feeling out of me as that, it went to my head and made me dizzy. I closed my eyes as I started to suck his cock, so when I felt his hand cup the back of my neck it was as much of a surprise as if he'd belted me or yanked my hair. His thumb rubbed the nape of my neck as I moved, following the taper of my hair, and every stroke felt electric. Even if I hadn't loved sucking cock for its own sake, I would've done it just to feel that hand petting me, stroking me, fussing over me. It was like a drug all on its own.

You never know what reaction you're going to get with older guys, if you slip a hand down to take care of yourself while they're fucking your mouth or your ass. Some of them love it, some of them take it as insult, some of them don’t even notice. I reckoned Mr Middleton wouldn't mind it, and somehow I didn't want to pull back and ask outright, so I decided to take a chance and go for it. My belt jangled as I unbuckled it, so I knew he could tell what I was doing, but I didn't dare open my eyes to check if he was smiling or frowning. I just carried on sucking his cock, keeping one hand wrapped around his shaft while I worked a fist over my own, and I'd barely got a dozen strokes in when I felt his hand move away from my neck. I was expected a tug on my hair, or a slap, or a sudden shove away. Instead that hand came up to rest on top of my head, half petting me and half guiding me. I would've done anything for that touch. I felt like a tool that had been picked up by the right hand at last, after years and years of laying unused on the side. I felt like I was made to have that hand steering me.

"Victor," he said all of a sudden, and it was a soft word, but I got the meaning loud and clear. The funny thing was that every time I'd daydreamed about this, I'd wanted him to finish over my face, or over my ass if he'd been fucking me, because I'd wanted to give him the showiest, most attention-grabbing ending I could think of. I'd wanted to impress him, and I knew how much old men love seeing boys dripping with come, so it seemed the natural choice, but when it came down to it, I couldn't pull back. I went off-script without a second thought. I leaned forward, bracing myself against his thighs, pushing my throat down around his cock until my face was buried in his lap, and I swallowed every last drop of his come like I was dying of thirst. I was, really. Not dying, but starving. Too hungry to even think about showiness, or impressiveness, or anything except the taste of him on the back of my tongue.

"Thank you, sir," I said hoarsely, when he was done. I hadn't finished, but I knew the routine: even the friendliest old guy's going to lose interest once he's had his fun, isn't he? That's what I thought, at least, so I started fastening my trousers back up as soon as he'd finished buttoning his.

"No, don't stop," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I want you to enjoy yourself fully, Victor. I want you to go home as satisfied as I am."

"Alright, sir," I said, nodding, trying not to grin like a fool. "Thank you, sir."

His hand moved up to my cheek as I started to stroke myself, and I could see his eyes moving from my face down to my lap and back again. He spent as long looking at my eyes and my mouth as at my chest or my cock, as if the whole picture was what excited him, as if it was the whole of _me_ , head-to-toe. I couldn't think of anything except the expression on his face. Normally my head would be full of pictures while I took care of myself, even if it was just memories of what I'd done before or daydreams of what I wanted to do in the future, but there was no room in my head for anything but the approval in Mr Middleton's eyes. The fact he was standing over me, stroking my cheek with his thumb, smiling slightly as he watched me, that was all I needed. That was the only thing in the world, and when I came it was hard and sudden and out-of-the-blue, like falling in a dream.

"That's my boy," he said, patting my cheek lightly, once I'd finished. Then he took the handkerchief out of his top pocket, and passed it to me. "Here, Victor, dry yourself off."

"Thank you, sir," I said, for what must have been the tenth time in an hour. Words like that felt like magic to me, and I took any chance I could to say them. I'd never called anyone 'sir' before. Not my bosses in my old jobs, not any of the guys I'd been with before, no-one. Even with the guys I'd respected, it never felt right to say it. Now it felt so natural that the word was like sugar on my tongue. I couldn't get enough of it.

"Mr Middleton," I said, as I got to my feet, "can we do this again sometime, sir?"

"My dear boy," he chuckled, "if I didn’t have a business to run, I suspect I'd do little else!"


	9. Ray

"I don't mean to be rude, sir," I said, glancing at Mr Middleton, "or ungrateful or anything, but when you asked me and Vic to work for you, you said taking over Bennett's turf was part of the package."

Mr Middleton nodded. "Yes, I did."

"I mean, that's not the only reason we signed up," I blurted out, suddenly worried that I'd offended him. He smiled at me, and I carried on, turning my face toward the sea breeze in the hope it would cool my cheeks. "But it's been three months now, sir."

"Be patient," he said, stopping to lean against the railing. "You won't have to wait much longer." He was looking out at the water, and as I watched his face, I could see the glare of the illuminations behind him, and the twinkle of the tower in the distance. Those brightly-coloured lights suited him better than anything, I thought. Better than restaurant candles or the gold-shaded lamps at the theatre. He needed the gaudy red and blue and yellow lights to really look like himself, and I wondered how he'd ever gotten by in a city less stuffed full of glitter than this one. I wondered who he'd been, before he came here.

"But why can't we take him out right now, sir? Me and Vic could have it in hand inside of a week, and we'd only need half a dozen guys for muscle. Maybe not even that."

"Oh, I don't doubt it," he chuckled. "But these things must be done at the right time, in the right order, if you want your results to really stick. And this absolutely _must_ stick, Raymond." His voice was lower now, soft and heavy and quietly unsettling, like a peal of thunder in the distance. "I intend my takeover to be complete and total. The two of you are going to help me dispose of Bennett, yes, but when you come to look back on this period of your lives, that interlude will seem like a trivial little skirmish compared to what comes next."

"Yes, sir," I said, nodding. I was surprised he'd even bothered to explain himself that much, so I was resigning myself to waiting for another unspecified number of months before I got a chance at revenge. I was thinking myself lucky to have gotten more than a _Because I said so_ , when I asked why. And then Mr Middleton surprised me again, as he did so often in the early days; he carried on talking, outlining his plan, spreading it all out in front of me like a map. He told me what each stage was for, why it had to be done in this particular way, why this particular order, what the subtle consequences of each move would be, and when I asked foolish questions he answered them patiently, smiling that warm smile at me when I finally grasped the idea. We stood on the promenade talking for what felt like an hour, looking out at the navy-blue sea, watching the waves sparkle under the lights of the pier. It was late, almost time for the amusements to be closing, but to me it felt like the sun was rising.

"There won't be any quick victories," Mr Middleton said, as we started walking again, "but when I'm finished, Raymond, you will see my mark on every inch of this city."

"And on us, sir," I said, almost giddily.

"And on you, indeed," he laughed, touching his palm to my back, "though I'd say on that count, we're already halfway there."

"Can we go back to your house?" I said, suddenly. The words seemed to come out of nowhere, as if they'd sprung from a trapdoor or been lowered in on strings. I knew what I was asking, really, but I couldn't help couching it in what I thought was a reasonable alibi. "I could do with borrowing a few more books, if you don't mind, sir."

"I don't mind at all," he said, and the hand on my back grew a little firmer. "Let's head back to the car."

As I drove, Mr Middleton provided a steady stream of mercifully lightweight conversation, which kept me from thinking too much about what I was planning. We talked about shows he wanted to take us to see, holidays we might take in the spring, tailors we might visit in nearby towns, anything and everything except what was really on my mind. Even when we arrived, when we were climbing the steps up to Mr Middleton's front door, the conversation slid smoothly onto books but remained so light that I could have had the same discussion with a perfect stranger. It was only when we were standing in the hallway together that I felt I could begin to broach the subject that really mattered, and even then, I couldn't bring myself to approach it directly.

"Maybe we could have a drink, sir?" I said, as he shrugged his coat off into my hands. "To be honest, I didn't come here just for the books."

"No?" He watched me hang his coat up, and there was a faint, slightly wry smile on his lips as he carried on. "I suppose the apartment must seem rather lonely when Victor's away."

"Well, I thought you might want some company, too, sir." My mouth was set in a churlish little frown. I didn't like the implication that I couldn't stand an evening alone.

"Yes, you're quite right, I do." He put his hand on my shoulder. "Why don't you make a couple of drinks, while I change? I won't be long."

The warmth of his touch thawed the frown from my lips, and I smiled again as I said "Yes, sir."

I watched from the hallway as he went upstairs, until I'd seen the last flash of navy pinstripe disappear behind the upper bannisters, and then I busied myself making the drinks. Mr Middleton has always had very particular rules about what he'll drink and when, and in the early days learning those rules became almost a hobby for me. All of Mr Middleton's rules fascinated me, because they were extremely personal; they weren't the standard conventions of normal etiquette, and some of his rules were downright strange, but all of them reflected his tastes and his priorities, and so to me they were worth a hundred books on manners. They also made a reasonably good distraction, whenever I was having difficulty keeping my head. As I made the drinks, I focussed so hard on measuring and pouring and mixing that I almost forgot my nerves, but that could only take me so far. Soon enough I was standing there in the silent kitchen with a couple of weak gin and tonics in my hands, and nothing in my head except the knowledge that I'd edged one foot over the Rubicon, and very soon I'd be leaping across it altogether. Of course I'd had encounters with other boys before, and some of those boys had been perhaps three or four years older than me, but _this_ was so far outside of my experience that I felt as if I really might as well be a virgin. There's your first time, and then there's your first time with a man like Mr Middleton, and to me those seemed like two very different things.

I took the drinks into the lounge, and stood there for a few minutes, looking around at the pictures on the walls, and then at the furniture. Before long I found myself glancing at each chair and cabinet and table with a nervous eye. _Perhaps he'll sit there,_ I thought to myself, looking at the brocade-covered chair by the fireplace. _Perhaps I'll be bent over that sideboard. Perhaps he'll put me on my knees on that rug._ And so on and so forth, until I could see myself draped across every article of furniture in the room. I couldn't stand it. If I carried on like that, I thought, by the time Mr Middleton came downstairs again I'd be half-mad with excitement. I carried the drinks out into the hallway, and headed carefully up the stairs. At least in the library, I could distract myself with the books I was ostensibly there to borrow.

The library was pitch-dark, since the curtains in there were the heavy velvet kind that block out every last shred of light. I set the drinks down on the table and switched on one of the reading-lamps. I didn't want to turn on the main lights, and if you'd asked me, at that moment I would have told you some nonsense about feeling tired and not wanting the glare of a bright light to hurt my eyes. Really, I just didn't want to spoil the mood the dim lighting created. So I stood quite deliberately in the shadows, looking at the big painting that hung over the mantelpiece, tracing the few details I could pick out in the half-light. It was a portrait of a boy with a lute, and when I'd looked at it before in the daytime, what had struck me was the redness of his cheeks and lips, and the way that rosiness seemed to flow into the curls of his hair and the wood of the instrument. But now, in the shadows, the painting seemed to be almost entirely about the pallor of the boy's throat, the milky gleam of his shoulder just visible under the slipping neck of that delicate ivory shirt, the glittering flash of the whites of his eyes. It was as if the boy in the portrait had grown paler since the last time I'd looked at him, as if he'd changed as suddenly and dramatically as real boys are wont to do.

"There you are, Raymond."

Mr Middleton's slippered footsteps had been silent, and I was caught off-guard. The sight of him did nothing to calm me. He was wearing his maroon lounge pyjamas, the ones I liked the best—although of course I hadn't told him that—and he had a smoking jacket tied loosely around him, with the knot of the belt skewed to one side. It looked almost careless, but even then I knew that nothing Mr Middleton ever did was less than deliberate. He reminded me again of the men in those museum paintings, with their mixture of perfect control and perfect ease, and again I found myself enthralled. I could barely pull my gaze away from the velvet lapels crossing his chest, and up to the smile on his lips.

"I just was browsing, sir."

"Oh yes?" he said, coming across to stand beside me. I could smell the faintest touch of the blond tobacco chypre he always wore in the evenings, lacing through the scent of the library's books and leather and polished wood.  "What are you in the mood for?"

"Oh, I don't know, sir," I said, feeling suddenly coquettish and bold. My voice had a smooth purr to it now, the kind I thought the lute-playing boy in the painting might use. "What do you think I should try?"

He looked at me, smiling slightly, and picked up one of the books from the shelf above my head. "I think it's about time you dipped your toe into something more challenging," he said, passing the book to me.

"Can I ask you something, sir?" I didn't even look at the book in my hands. My glass stood untouched on the table, and yet I felt as giddy and impulsive as if I'd been drinking all night.

"Of course you can," he replied, with a sort of sceptical amusement in his tone, as if he knew I was up to something, but wasn't entirely sure what.

"Well, if—" I faltered almost straight away, but the warmth in Mr Middleton's eyes urged me on, and I recovered quickly. "If Vic hadn't made a move on you, you'd never have touched him, would you?"

"No," he said, with a smile. "No, I wouldn't have."

"Why not?"

"Because I had to be sure he really wanted it."

"Is that why you haven't touched me?" I put the book down on the table by the armchair, and turned away slightly, so I didn't have to see the expression on his face when he answered. My boldness had drained away, spent by the exertion of asking the question, and now all I had left were the anxieties and insecurities I'd begun with.

"Yes, it is." His voice was soft and firm, like a hand on the arm. "If you were ten years older, Raymond, I would have propositioned you the first time I brought you up here."

"Would you, sir?" Nervousness forced a soft little laugh out of me. "What about now?"

"Now, you only have to ask."

I turned around, and we looked at each other. For a moment my head swam with the odd kind of power he'd given me; he wanted me, but he wouldn't lay a finger on me until I asked him to, so if I chose to I could keep him at bay forever, thwarted and frustrated for as long as it amused me. But just the same, he had me at his mercy—I had to _ask_ for what I wanted, and at that age I found directness difficult. Being plain about my desires was anything but simple. The best I could do was to look him in the eyes and say "I'm asking now."

If he'd wanted to, he could have tortured me with that coyness. He could have made me spell out exactly what I wanted. He could have made me beg. Instead he put his hands on my shoulders and pulled me into an embrace that felt inescapable. The scent of the chypre seemed to fill the air, spicing every breath I took with carnation and vanilla, making my head heavy and my limbs weak. He gripped the back of my neck in one hand and the curve of my ass in the other, and the strength of his touch made me feel as flimsy as one of his silk scarves. His thigh pressed between mine, and even through the layers of wool and velvet and satin between us, I knew he could feel how aroused I was already, how little it took, really, to excite me. A look or a stern word alone could do it; Mr Middleton's hands were more than enough. I squirmed against him as he kneaded my ass, laying my cheek against his shoulder to keep from having to meet his eyes, but he would tolerate neither my bashfulness nor my fidgeting.

"Stand still," he ordered, pushing me back by the shoulders. For a brief moment I thought I'd ruined everything, that he was about to dismiss me for the night, but instead he reached out to take hold of the lapels of my jacket, and began to pull it off me. He was brisk about it, not careless exactly, but matter-of-fact, as if he were simply removing the dust-jacket from one of his books. There was no hesitation in his touch, none at all. I watched him drape the jacket over the back of the armchair, and when he turned back to me and began to unknot my tie, I had a line from one of the books he'd lent me echoing in my head. _If you wish to undress a boy, you must clothe him first_. I followed his hands with my eyes, watching the silk of the tie rippling thickly as he laid it on top of my jacket, and I thought of all the clothes he'd bought me. I had a wardrobe full of beautiful suits, shirts, and ties, in every cloth and colour that took my fancy. I realised now that Mr Middleton's touch was in every garment. His embrace had surrounded me from the very beginning. He had dressed me, and now I was his to undress. I was his to do with as he pleased.

"Turn around, and bend over," he said, taking hold of my arms and shoving me down over the table even as he issued the order. It was as if he was narrating the story to me, spelling out the details so that I could feel it as keenly mentally as physically, as if the words themselves were as important as the hand on my back, the fingers unbuckling my belt, the cool air against the bare skin of my ass and thighs.

"Stay there."

"Yes, sir." I nodded, and pressed my forehead to the cool wood of the table.

He turned away, and I heard the sound of a drawer opening. I could guess what was inside, and as I listened to him pouring out a palmful of oil, suddenly the thought occurred to me: had the bottle been there all along, during all those quiet hours I'd spent in the library? Had this room always held the possibility of being bent over like this, stroked like this, wetted and smoothed like this? Mr Middleton's fingers slid gently into my ass, and each slow push of his hand made me think of all the other times his fingers had touched me. The gentle pats on the cheek, when he was proud of me. The hand brushing a strand of hair back from my forehead. The fingertips correcting the knot of my tie. All those times he'd laid little claims of ownership on me, on the outside of me, preparing the way for the deeper touch he gave me now. I could feel his knuckles brushing against my skin, and the length of his fingers sliding and turning inside me, pushing me just a little harder, spreading me just a little more, a little wider. I hadn't intended to say a thing, and certainly nothing close to a plea, but with his fingers inside me I found I had no choice.

"Please," I said quietly, looking back over my shoulder. "Please, sir, fuck me."

"My dear boy, you needn't beg." He smiled at me, and patted my side with his dry hand. "Though I suppose I can't fault your manners."

I watched him untie the belt of his smoking jacket, so that it hung loosely open, the velvet of it shimmering slightly in the lamplight. I could see the hard line of his cock pushing against the satin of his pyjamas, and my cheeks flushed red-hot as I watched him unbutton his fly. Again I thought of the difference between what was happening now, and all the encounters I'd had before. How many boys had I watched undressing without the faintest blush? And yet seeing Mr Middleton stroking one parchment-white hand along the length of his cock, it felt brand new. I watched the oil glistening on his skin, gleaming obscenely on the deep reddish pink of his flesh, making it look somehow harder and thicker, lurid and almost exaggerated, like the stylised images I pictured whenever my thoughts turned to the idea of being fucked. Then he stepped forward and stroked the tip of his cock up and down along the cleft of my ass, and without meaning to I moaned as if he'd pierced me through.

"Hold still and breathe," he ordered, and I could only obey. He pushed forward, meeting every ounce of resistance my body gave him with patience, and at every step of the way he held me still, steadying me, stroking his hand firmly down along the length of my back as he fed his cock into me. I kept my eyes closed so that I could focus on the sensation of it, the thick heat of it, the motion and the pressure. It was difficult, it needed concentration, but it gave as much as it took, and as his hips pressed flush against me, I suddenly thought: _this is what I've been missing_. This was the reason it had never quite worked before, whenever I'd let another boy fuck me. The reason I couldn't relax, the reason I couldn't enjoy it, the reason I'd been left cold so many times. How _could_ I have ever relaxed, without his hands holding me down? How could I have expected myself to surrender, when all I was surrendering to was another boy as clumsy and inept as myself?

"There," he said, stroking his hand down along my back. "How does that feel?"

 _Amazing_ , I wanted to say. _Amazing and electric and perfect, and I need more, much more, right now, so badly that I can't wait another second._ But I was still caught up in the last few tendrils of my self-consciousness, and all I could say was "Good, sir." Then he began to fuck me, slowly at first, casually, almost carelessly, and the feeling of it made my head light and my tongue loose.

"Please, sir," I said, pushing myself back against him. "Please, I want— I need—"

What did I want? What did I need? I don't think I knew, really. I wanted the sensation of being fucked, harder and rougher, yes. I needed to feel that he was using me, using my body, indulging himself in it, the way he'd indulge himself in a scented bath or a rare wine. I needed to feel that I was a luxury he could revel in. Imagine that. The confidence he'd already given me, even so early on. Six months before, I'd thought of myself as disposable, vulnerable, doomed to a hard life and an unpleasant end. Now I thought of myself as one of his extravagances, as something fine and special. Now I spread myself out underneath him, arching my back, letting out every moan and yelp that rose to my lips, because I knew he'd enjoy them. Now I threw myself into my role, wholeheartedly, joyously.

"My boy," he said, his voice taut and almost rough with exertion, "you really were made for pleasure, weren't you?"

"Your pleasure, sir," I said, without thinking.

"Not just mine," he corrected me, and he leaned forward, pressing his chest to my back, and slipped his hand down beneath me. When his fingers curled around my cock, I breathed in sharply and clenched my fists. I'd always had trouble keeping myself under control, and I knew tonight was going to be no different. He stroked me slowly at first, but firmly enough to set off that familiar tight feeling that coiled up in the pit of my stomach, firmly enough to make me murmur little pleas as he fucked me. I'd touched myself just the same way so many times, with pictures of this in my head. I'd dreamed of this so often, and yet to have his hand on me, to have the warmth of his skin against mine, that made all the difference.

"Now," he said, pulling me suddenly upright by the arm, "I want you over there, Raymond."

These days I know exactly how much steel is under Mr Middleton's silk, but back then it surprised me every time he manhandled me, every time his grip on me tightened enough to make me wince. Back then I underestimated him by force of habit, the way so many other people did. I suppose I didn't suffer for it the same way; the worst it brought me was embarrassment. I moaned as he shoved me up against the bookcase beside us, and then again as he slid back into me, louder as he began to fuck me again, louder still as his hand clasped my cock and began to stroke it. Now when I winced, it was at the desperation in my voice. I held onto the bookshelf with both hands, as if I were clinging on to the edge of a cliff, and the wood of it creaked as we moved. He held onto me just as firmly, with one hand gripping my shoulder and the other curled tightly around my cock, and between the two I felt as helpless as if he'd bound me hand and foot. That taut, coiled feeling inside me twisted tighter and tighter with every stroke of his fist, every thrust of his hips, every twitch and pulse of his cock. I was rushing headlong towards the precipice, and I knew I only had a moment to warn him.

"Sir, if you keep going," I said frantically, "if you keep on like that, I'll— I'm going to—"

"Come for me," he said, working his hand over me more firmly now, as fast and rough as he was fucking me.

"But sir," I yelped, "the books!"

He laughed, and kept up his pace. " _Damn_ the books, Raymond."

So I surrendered. I felt, between his words and his hand, as if he'd offered me a door to walk through, and all I had to do was step forward. I _flung_ myself forward. I gave myself up to the feeling, to his touch, to him, and I came so loudly and violently that I wanted to laugh at myself, at the absurdity of being so overwhelmed, so overflowing, so unstoppably out of control. Afterwards, Mr Middleton slowed his pace and began to fuck me in long, careful, perfectly-controlled strokes. I remember thinking to myself that he'd had so many years of practice when it came to fucking boys that _of course_ he'd have a very precise way of doing it, a very particular angle and rhythm he favoured. Then it occurred to me that the faster, rougher treatment he'd given me a few moments ago might have been entirely for my benefit, a performance fine-tuned to suit what he thought I might appreciate. He knew exactly what I needed, and he wanted to give it to me in abundance. That thought made my cheeks burn far hotter than anything else I'd said or done. As he came, I looked back at him, and found he was looking straight at me, intently, steadily, with eyes full of warmth and light.

 

* * *

 

I spent the cab ride home wondering whether Vic would be able to tell. Probably not, I thought, since I'd have had a good few hours' sleep before I saw him again. I'd probably already have gotten up and had breakfast by the time he got home, I thought. But then again, I wondered if perhaps something would seem different about me, no matter how well-rested and pristinely-dressed I might be. Perhaps there would be something in my eyes that gave it away. I've never been able to hide things from Vic, really, and I suppose I thought he'd be able to read my mind. As it happened, though, all my wondering was quite pointless. As soon as I stepped out onto the pavement, I could see the light in our window, and I knew at once why Vic was back earlier than expected. Even then, the flings he had with younger boys were stormy and prone to sudden endings. The only difference is that back then the boys he pursued had youth as an excuse for their foolishness—and so did we.

"You're home early," I said, as I closed the door behind me. It was never a good idea to suggest that Vic might have fallen out with one of his boys, even if that was obviously the case. I had to wait until he was ready to tell me, or the whole thing would take twice as long to work through.

"Yeah, well, hardly surprising, is it?" he muttered.

I let that question go unanswered. "I'm going to put the kettle on, d'you want a cup?"

"Yeah," he grunted. "Yeah, alright."

He followed me into the kitchen, and stood leaning against the wall, staring at the vase on the table.

"So," I said lightly, as I filled the kettle, "did you and Charlie end up going to the pictures?"

"Yeah."

"That film with all the dancing, was it?"

"Yeah."

"Any good?"

"Yeah. No. Oh, I don't know," he said, suddenly pushing himself up off the wall. "We had an argument afterwards. I can't remember much of the film."

"What did you argue about?" I asked, as if it might be something small and easily smoothed-over.

"He made a comment I didn't like."

"About..?"

"My watch. About how it belongs to Mr Middleton, really, and so does the rest of my stuff, and that means I'm not my own man."

"Well." I took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. I could just imagine the reaction Vic would have had to a remark like that. Mr Middleton's name had become sacred to him. No-one invoked it lightly without paying the price.

"It's not about the watch, though. Or the clothes, or the flat, or any of it. Not really."

"Isn't it?" I handed Vic his cup, and sat down at the table.

"No." He put his cup down with a bang. "It's because he knows I have sex with Mr Middleton. No, not just that. It's because I _like_ it. I don't think he'd be bothered if he thought I was doing it for pay. It's the fact that I enjoy it. He can't handle knowing that the stuff I do to him, I like having done to me too."

"Well, that's just stupid," I scoffed. It wasn't the first time one of Vic's boys had sneered at his taste for older men, but it had never upset him this much before. "Sounds like you're best off getting shot of that one, if you ask me."

"Yeah," he said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced.

"Listen," I carried on, "just forget about him and get yourself a new boy, one with more brains in his head."

"That's easy for you to say," he sighed. "It's alright for you, Ray, none of _your_ boys are ever going to be funny with you because of Mr Middleton."

I made a sort of noncommittal murmur, and sipped my tea. There was a long silent moment, and I could feel him looking at me, but I kept my eyes fixed on the cup in my hands.

Vic sat down across from me. "Are they?"

"No," I said, meeting his eyes at last. "Because _I_ wouldn't pick up the kind of idiot who'd have a problem with it."

A smile spread across his face like a sunrise. I wanted to laugh. For once I'd managed to distract him from his troubles with something even juicier than his latest spat.

"What, have you..?" He trailed off, sounding suddenly bashful.

"Yeah." I smiled, and took another sip of my tea. I was quite enjoying the attention, to be perfectly honest, although I wouldn't have admitted it.

"How long have you been..?"

"Not long," I said, casually.

"I thought you didn't go for that kind of thing."

I shrugged. "So did I."

Vic laughed, and clapped me on the shoulder. "Well, better late than never, eh?"


End file.
